


On This Winter’s Night

by athena4lynn



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena4lynn/pseuds/athena4lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Clint Barton Found Something He Needed In A Church On Christmas Eve</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nestra & Sternel for Beta.
> 
> I've done my best to research the locations and religious services described, but I take responsibility for any errors, and offer apologies. 
> 
> Merry Christmas!

**Vienna, Austria – December 24, 2003**

The Black Widow was elusive.

SHIELD had been tracking her for a year. She’d slipped by them in Guatemala, Bangkok and Belgrade, left a sniper with a broken knee in Wroclaw, and vanished from sight entirely two months ago, each time leaving a body (or several) in her wake. Then, two weeks ago, they’d heard a rumour of an appearance in Kiev, which led to another rumour in Prague. 

Prague had panned out, but didn’t stick. Before Clint could put eyes on her, she’d moved on, leaving another body and several angry politicos in her wake. From there, Intel placed her east, towards Frankfurt, but something didn’t feel right, so Coulson had called in a favour.

The body had dropped a day later, in Brno, and the resulting aneurysm by Fury was stalled only by the knowledge that Clint and Coulson had been only a step behind, and were still tracking.

Clint finally put eyes on her their first day in Vienna. He had a clear shot on day two, but something made him pause, letting her slip away into a crowd of tourists. On day four, he was waiting outside her hotel when she exited, but he didn’t approach, keeping his distance as she wandered the city.

It wasn’t subtle, but it wasn’t meant to be. He needed to be seen; wanted to provoke her into action. And as dusk fell, as the lights began to come on in the Christmas Market, it happened: she turned, gave him an appraising look, and started towards the north-east – leaving the market entirely and weaving her way through the pre-Christmas crowds.  


Clint stayed in place a moment, tugging his collar up against the wind. “I’ve been made, boss.”

“Acknowledged.” 

Coulson’s voice was clipped, and Clint felt a couple of butterflies take flight in his stomach. They were taking a chance here; one that could get Clint killed and would, most definitely, get them both hauled up in front of Director Fury. But Clint couldn’t let it drop – from the moment he’d seen her, he’d known: The Black Widow would be a better as an ally than as a corpse.

Starting off in the direction she’d taken, he caught sight of her just past City Hall, on the far side of the street. He kept to his side, letting her lead him past the edge of the park and the University, then across the _Universitätsstraße_. There she paused, but only briefly, before moving more quickly towards a large gothic church.

Glancing quickly at the oncoming traffic, Clint crossed over to her side of the street. He lost her for a brief moment among a group of tourists, but then she reappeared, ducking through the entrance just as he hit the steps. “Votive Church,” he said, waiting for Coulson’s acknowledgement.

“So we can assume she doesn’t intend to kill you.”

“I’m sure you’re relieved, sir.” 

The answering silence was not reassuring, and Clint swore softly as he slipped through the doors.

Even in the dim interior light, he found her almost immediately: off to the right of the nave, near a statue surrounded by candles. As he watched, she leaned in to light a candle, then stood back, eyeing it intently. He gave her a moment before starting toward her, curving around the columns on that side, ensuring she could see him (and he her) at all times.

He’d read her stats, seen the pictures in her file, but still she surprised him. She was smaller than he’d pictured; her hair, at the moment, dyed red, standing out against her black knit cap. But it was her face that caught him the most – the way the candles flickered in her eyes, the softness of her features. He’d expected her to be hard, even frightening to behold, but the woman before him – despite her reputation - didn’t seem all that scary.

But he wasn’t stupid. Stopping a few feet away, he waited, letting her make the first move. It was unlikely she’d have picked such a public place if she’d intended to kill him, but Clint wasn’t taking any chances. 

“Who are you?” she asked, finally, and once again, Clint was taken aback. Her voice was soft, lightly accented, and it almost immediately drew him in. Suddenly, he realised exactly why she was so dangerous. He resisted taking a step back.

“Clint Barton. I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.” Her head turned, and she raised an eyebrow – amused, he thought, although she was as difficult to read as Coulson. “SHIELD,” he offered, letting himself give her a soft smile. “We’re –“

“I know who and what SHIELD is.” She turned back to the candles, focussed on the one she’d lit. There was a tension in her shoulders that hadn’t been there when he’d approached, and he wondered at its cause. “But SHIELD wants me dead and you had your shot two days ago.”

_Oh._ Clint managed to hide his surprise at that. He thought he’d gotten away clean. “My orders are to kill you,” he admitted, continuing to study her. “But I decided to make you an offer instead.”

She turned, giving him a look of derision, arms crossed over her chest. “You do not have that power.”

Clint shrugged, casual. “Not officially, no. I can’t rescind the kill order, neither can my handler.” He started to pull his gloves off, and watched her eyes flit towards his hands, just for a second, before returning to his face. “But the Director has a great deal of respect for Agent Coulson, who in turn, has a great deal of respect for me.” 

That earned him a raised eyebrow, but her face was unreadable. “And you?” she asked, tilting her head. “Is this about your respect for me?”

“In a way –“ It barely lasted a second, but he had seen surprise cross her face. He counted that as a victory. “I know what you are. What you were trained to do. I know who made you what you are. And I know what you’ve done.” She didn’t react, but he hadn’t expected her to. He paused though, crossing to the candles. He took his time choosing one to light, giving her time to wonder what came next. As he reached out to light the candle, he began again. “But I also know you’ve spent the last few years acting independently. You’ve moved away from the ‘who’ and gone …freelance, shall we say?”

He caught her nod in the shadows on the wall. “I’ve been there.” Turning, he met her eyes. “Not the training. I wasn’t …made like you were.” A flinch that time? He couldn’t be sure in the dim light. “But when SHIELD found me….” He waved a hand, brushing it off. He wasn’t here to tell his life story. "The thing is,” he continued, moving back towards her. “I think you want to change. I think you want to stop running. You’re right, I had that shot two days ago, but I couldn’t make it, because when I looked at you, I saw me.”

The silence between them stretched, the beginnings of the early service filling in the gap. As the procession started, he stepped towards her, to speak over the noise. “The truth is, I can’t make any guarantees, either.” He pulled out his gloves again, starting to slip them on. “You could come in with me and Agent Coulson and the Director could order you killed. Hell, he’ll probably put us in front of the firing squad with you.”

Her eyebrow raised again and this time it was clearly shock. He shrugged, smiling, and kept talking. “But we’re both hoping for the alternative. We think you’d be a good asset to SHIELD, Natasha Romanov. I think you should consider it.”

Gloves on, he started down the aisle, wondering if he’d gotten through; wondering if she was going to kill him now that his back was turned. She could probably do it without leaving evidence, and with the noise in the church right now…

He sensed movement behind him, but kept moving, unwilling to create a scene, or let her know he was actually a little afraid. When she fell into step beside him, he tilted his head towards her, questioning. 

She nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

**St. Petersburg, Russia – January 6, 2005**

Clint tugged at his scarf as the wind picked up, blowing snow towards them. Hunching a little, he tightened his arm across Natasha’s shoulders, leaning in close. “We’ve got a tail,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple. “My seven. Dark jacket. Ugly red hat. Been with us about ten blocks.”

“You sure it’s a tail, Barton?” Coulson’s voice crackled a little through Clint’s comm – he’d have to get that checked out when they got back to base. “There’s a lot of people out tonight.”

“Ducked into a doorway when we paused to window shop three blocks back.” Clint stopped, ducking into a doorway of his own and backing himself up against the glass of the door, giving Natasha a clear view of the reflections. He tugged at her scarf this time, pulling her in to kiss her deeply, wrapping his arms around her. “Thought we got out clean, boss.”

“You did,” Coulson replied, his voice his usual calm. “Clean-up’s already taking care of your mess. He’s not one of theirs.”

“Then who –“ He had to stop when Natasha kissed him, pressing him back against the glass of the door. Pulling away, she tucked her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, laying her cheek against his coat. 

“He’s one of _mine_.”

“Natas –“

She kissed him again, bringing her gloved hands up to cup his face as she did so. This time when she pulled away, her eyes met his. She was frightened.

Taking her hands, he leaned in to kiss her forehead, taking the opportunity to assess their situation. Their man was off to the right, still four blocks down, and not doing a very good job of hiding his interest in them. Straight ahead was an alleyway that seemed to end in a dead-end. To the left – the direction they’d originally been heading – was a small church, its doors closed against the wind and snow, but admitting a steady stream of patrons.

“We won’t make extraction with him tailing us, boss,” he said, bringing his eyes back down to Natasha’s. “At least not without attracting attention we don’t want. Need to get off the street. There’s a church three blocks south. Think it’s time I got some religion.”

Natasha’s lip quirked at that, but she nodded, leaning in to kiss him once more before tugging him out of the doorway and starting towards the church.

Coulson’s voice crackled again as he came through the comm. “Get yourself inside, into the crowd. Your covers are intact, so use them if you have to engage. If he doesn’t follow, we’ll take him out.”

“And if he does?” Clint paused on the steps, swinging Natasha back into his arms. He caught sight of their man as he did, three blocks now, but moving slow. 

“Bridges, Barton. We cross ‘em when we get to them.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Not very comforting, sir.”

“It’s all I can offer you right now. We’re a little off-profile here.”

There was another crackle on the comm, and Clint frowned, glancing down at Natasha. With a shrug, she started to move back towards the church, arm coiled through his. As they entered, he saw her eyes widen as she took in the decorations. “I forgot…We won’t need the profiles,” she murmured, more for him than Coulson. “it’s Christmas Eve – “

Clint gave her a look, confused. “They’ll expect strangers,” she explained, pulling off her gloves and shoving them into the pockets of her coat. He did the same, trailing after her through the crowd.

“Yeah, I get that but –“

“Orthodox, Barton – “ Coulson’s voice came over the comm again and this time it was laced with amusement. _Bastard_. And Natasha was looking at him the same way. “You’re in Russia.”

Clint felt his face colour, just a little, and he reached for Natasha’s hand, not wanting to lose her. “Where are the –“

She shook her head. “No pews. Standing room only.” She gave him another amused grin and tugged him in the direction of an empty space among the crowd. It placed them out of view of the main doorway, far enough inside that their tail would have to push through the crowd to get to them. Bad positioning for escape, but good for hiding – and hiding was their goal. 

“Not seeing any clear routes out,” he murmured, leaning in close as though whispering to Natasha, arm across her shoulder. “There’s probably a side door outta here, but I can’t see it. We’re in for the duration, boss, unless our man decides to create a scene.”

“We’ve got eyes on him. He’s hovering – maybe waiting for instructions.” Coulson’s voice was all business, seemingly unaffected despite how quickly it could all go sideways. “We’ll pick him up once the crowd clears, or alert you if he starts your way.”

“Coulson.“ Natasha’s voice was soft – not just in volume, but in tone, and Clint looked down at her worriedly. He reached out with his free hand, clasping hers. “If he made me –“

Coulson cut her off. “We knew this was a possibility, Romanoff. We didn’t profile for it, but we weren’t unprepared.” Clint resisted a snort, given their location, but did roll his eyes so Natasha could see. _Weren’t unprepared_ was Coulson-speak for _I’ve gone over every possible scenario in my head, they’re just not on paper anywhere_. “Sit tight. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Yes, sir.” She shifted nervously, pulling her hand out of Clint’s to start to remove her scarf. Her movements were awkward, and so unlike her that Clint felt an icy tendril of fear climb his spine.

“Natasha,” he murmured, pulling at his own scarf awkwardly. “Coulson’s got a handle on it –“

Shaking her head, she turned to glare at him. “I should be out there. Not _hiding_.” 

She hadn’t raised her voice, but something in her tone caught the attention of the man standing next to her, and he frowned disapprovingly. Clint gave him a soft smile and murmured an apology in battered Russian before turning back to Natasha – to find her lip quirked in a tiny smile. “Shut up,” he said softly, eyebrow raised. 

Her expression didn’t change, but she leaned forward to plant a kiss on the corner of his lips. “I feel powerless,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. “I handle things _myself_.”

“Not anymore.” He caught her hand again, entwining their fingers. “Not all the time, anyway.”

She frowned, but before she could speak again, the church quieted, and the choir began to sing.

It was like nothing Clint had ever heard before, and Natasha reacted as well, her breath catching as she squeezed his hand. For a long time, they stood unmoving, letting the music unfold around them. There was a beauty to it; a depth Clint had never heard before – not in the tiny Midwest churches he’d been to as a child, nor in the southern churches he’d sometimes found himself in as a teen. The music there had its own power, but this …

Eventually, the music faded and the priest began to chant, his voice rising and falling as he led the group in prayer. Time passed, and as his voice began to rise again, Clint felt Natasha slip closer, tucking her head against his chest. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, voice heavy with emotion. “I’d forgotten –“

Clint wrapped his arm tighter around her, feeling some of her tension ebb as the priest’s words faded, and the choir picked up again. 

“Clint?” 

Coulson’s voice broke through the music, and Clint felt Natasha tense against him. “Mmm?”

“We’ve got him. You guys are clear.” 

“Good.” Clint dropped his forehead to the top of Natasha’s head, letting his eyes fall closed as the music started to peak. He listened through the end, feeling Natasha begin to relax again, before speaking, keeping his voice pitched low. “We’ve got some time?” 

“Extraction at 0400. You okay for it?”

“Yeah. We can make it.” He paused, pressing a kiss to the top of Natasha’s head. “Coulson?”

“Mmmm?”

“You been listening?”

“Yeah – “ There was a tremor in Coulson’s voice that caught Clint by surprise. “It’s exquisite.”

Clint nodded, only dimly aware that Coulson couldn’t see him. The chanting had started again, and it washed over him like a wave; especially when the crowd around him started to speak as well. He had to raise his voice a bit to be heard over them, but he still managed to not attract attention. 

“Makes me believe in forgiveness. For all of us.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Outside of Ayotlan, Jalisco, Mexico – December 24, 2007**

Three hours, thirty-five minutes. They’d been out in this god-forsaken wilderness for three hours and thirty-five minutes, and the only sign of life had been the remnants of a church half a mile back. A broken-down chapel with no people, and no phone.

The quinjet had gone down eight miles north, effectively disabling their ability to communicate with SHIELD, and the further they walked, the more Clint was beginning to believe that leaving it had been a bad idea.

“Stop. Just. Stop a minute, Nat.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees, breath coming in deep gasps. His head spun a little, but he managed to maintain his footing. “Can’t – can’t maintain this pace.”

“Mendoza’s people saw the plane go down, Clint.” He saw her stop, but not turn. “They’ll be searching –“ 

“Nat –“ His voice was sharper than he intended, but it forced her to turn, finally. Crossing back towards him, she knelt, laying a hand on his cheek. There was real concern in her eyes; and the way the pain was radiating, he couldn’t really disagree with her look. “Took a hit to the chest when the jet went down.”

She rose, but only long enough to help ease him to the ground. “Pain?”

“Chest to back; trouble breathing.” Crossing his legs under him, he tried to straighten his back, feeling a pull of pain as he did so. “Definitely a broken rib; possibly a collapsed lung. ” For a long time, she didn’t reply, and Clint knew she was assessing their situation. He’d be doing the same, if he didn’t have to concentrate so hard on breathing. Eventually though, the silence became too much. “Well?”

There was an exasperated sigh, and she rose, reaching for his hand. “We’re going back to the church,” she said, wrapping her arm around his waist and starting them walking. “We need to find a way to contact SHIELD, and I can move quicker alone.”

Clint drew in a deep breath – or tried to, it ended in a rather unmanly sound of pain. “Village. West.”

“Yeah,” Natasha agreed. “But I need to get you to shelter first. It’ll get cold once the sun goes down.”

By the end of the half-mile, Natasha was supporting him far more than was probably comfortable, but she still managed to set him down carefully inside the chapel, leaning him against the wall by the altar. Pulling one of her knives out of her suit, she laid it in his lap, and pulled his hand over to cup the hilt. “Just in case of coyotes.”

He nodded, letting his eyes fall closed, but they whipped open again when he felt Natasha tangle her fist in his hair. She leaned towards him, eyes fierce, but didn’t speak. 

She didn’t need to. 

“Just hurry back, okay?” he said, unable to keep the lilt of fear from his voice. She nodded, then rose, starting off towards the setting sun.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Clint had restarted his mental count once Natasha left. One hour, sixteen minutes. 

The sky was a deep purple through the missing door of his shelter, the remaining light casting eerie shadows on the walls of the tiny church and making the statue in the back corner look a little like the grim reaper. 

Definitely not a good sign. Nor was the fact that the temperature seemed to be dropping rapidly. 

Pulling out the tiny Maglite he kept tucked into one of his vest pockets, he swung it around the room a bit, hoping for the miraculous appearance of a blanket, or a wood-burning stove with matches and kindling. Neither appeared in the immediate vicinity, so he shut off the light, laying it next to the knife by his leg, and turned back towards the door.

Still no Natasha.

Clint was starting to get a little worried about dying alone in the Mexican wilderness.

Mostly the alone part. He’d dealt with the idea of death a long time ago, but he really didn’t want to be alone when it happened, especially in this particular scenario. 

He just didn’t want to be alone.

Still, even at one hour, twenty-five minutes, it wasn’t getting any _harder_ to breathe, it just wasn’t getting easier. And, so far, he also didn’t have the desire to lose consciousness, and that had to be a good sign.

Right?

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two hours, even, and Natasha appeared on the horizon. 

At least he hoped it was Natasha – at this point, it appeared to be a bright, swift-moving light - because at somewhere around one hour, forty-five minutes, breathing had started to get harder and pinpricks of darkness had started to appear in his vision. 

He still wasn’t scared to die, but he was getting a little _anxious_ about it. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two hours and –

“Clint?”

He’d lost count. At some point, he must have lost consciousness. 

“ _Clint –_ “ 

He thought maybe the voice sounded a little desperate. If it was Natasha, he totally wasn’t going to let her live that down. Whoever it was, the voice was comforting, and he tried to turn towards it, causing a sharp pain along his ribcage. He gasped, eyes opening wide. 

“Shhh…” _Natasha._ She wound her fingers through his hair, leaning close. Her hand was warm. When had it gotten so cold? “Stay with me, okay?”

The darkness was creeping into his vision again, and he shook his head, trying to clear it. “S’cold. Need to sleep.”

Her hand tightened in his hair, almost painfully. “No. No sleeping, Clint. SHIELD’s coming. Stay with me. Please.”

Yeah, her voice totally sounded desperate, but somehow, he couldn’t get up the energy to tease. Tilting his head towards her hand, he closed his eyes again. “Don’t wanna be alone, ‘Tasha. Just don’t leave me alone.”

She leaned closer, body against his, but still the sound of rotors almost caused her words to be lost. “Never alone, Clint. Never.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Rest Stop Along US 20, Somewhere in Illinois – December 23, 2010**

“I’m not sure how I let you talk me into this.” Clint pulled himself carefully out of the car, one hand pressed against his broken ribs. The hand didn’t help at all, and pain shot straight through to his back, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Shutting the door, he leaned heavily against it, eyes closed. “Should be on my back somewhere.”

He felt Natasha’s hands begin to zip up his coat and opened his eyes to find her smirking. “Maybe when you’re feeling better,” she quipped, brushing his hand away so the zipper could go all the way up. She let her hand rest against his chest when she was done, and he brought his back up to rest over it. “Coulson ordered downtime. Road trips are downtime.”

“Road trips are downtime,” he agreed, shifting off the car and starting to pace. Being upright helped the pain a little. “But if you wanted a road trip, we could have driven back to New York; we did not need to detour into Iowa so I could meet the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

She fell into step beside him, and they started circling the parking lot slowly, working out cramped muscles. “It doesn’t have to be about ghosts, Clint,” Natasha said after a long moment. “But I thought maybe –“ 

When she stopped speaking, he paused, raising an eyebrow at her. “Maybe…?

“Maybe seeing joy in the eyes of some _normal_ kids will help us forget the pain in the eyes of the ones we didn’t get to in time.” Her voice was soft, but he heard the catch in it anyway. This last mission had hit them all hard – a hundred kids, forced prostitution, and by the time they’d tracked them down…

Reaching for her, he wrapped his arms around her, ignoring the pain in his ribs. “Coulda found kids anywhere, Nat. Pretty sure they had them in Chicago – we could have stayed there. ” She tightened her grip around his middle, somehow managing to not press at his ribs as she did so. Closing his eyes again, he lay his cheek against her hair. “It’s not a happy place for me, ‘Tasha. I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to find there.”

She shrugged. “Innocence, maybe,” she murmured, voice muffled against his coat.

“Mine or yours?” he asked softly. He didn’t really expect her to answer, and she didn’t. Instead, she pulled away, reaching for his hand and tugging him towards the car. 

**Waverly, Iowa - December 24, 2010**

Clint paused on the sidewalk outside the church, pulling Natasha to the side a little to let several families pass. No longer blocked, their children ran along the sidewalk and up the walkway to the church doors, narrowly avoiding the banks of snow on either side. Clint heard an exasperated sigh as one child – a little girl, blue dress peeking out from under her coat, toppled into a snow bank, giggling wildly.

“Jessica! What did I say?!” The woman who had just passed Clint rushed forward, reaching for the girl’s arm. For a moment, Clint tensed, but all the woman did was brush the snow off, murmuring quietly to Jessica and ushering her through the doors.

It had all happened in less than a minute, but as Jessica and her mother passed through the doors, something that had nothing to do with the pain in his ribs stopped Clint’s breath. He reached blindly for Natasha’s hand, and she entwined her fingers with his, squeezing tightly. 

After a moment, the feeling passed, and Clint turned to Natasha. “Last chance to back out.”

She shook her head, and they started up the walkway, nodding a greeting to the older woman handing out programs at the door, and weaving past families attempting to corral their over-excited children before finally slipping into a pew at the back of the church. Once seated, Clint let Natasha’s hand drop, carefully tugging down the zipper of his coat. “This is the children’s service,” he murmured, trying to find a comfortable position. “They keep the hard-core religious stuff for midnight.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, letting her own coat fall open. “What’s going on over there?” She nodded towards a crowd gathering in the corner – children of all ages, gathered around a tiny woman who looked to be about 100, hair steel gray, but body still straight as an arrow. 

“Annual sacrifice,” he quipped. Natasha’s elbow barely grazed his ribs, but he tensed and his vision blurred. Her hand settled on his thigh, stroking in apology, and he tilted his head towards her. “Children’s Choir. Mrs. Triali has been running it for forty years now.”

If it hadn’t been for the pain, he might have considered what revealing that knowledge to Natasha would mean. But, it wasn’t until he saw her amused expression that he realised his mistake. “Were you in the Children’s Choir, Clint?” she asked softly, not even bothering to hide the amusement in her voice.

He straightened, arm over his ribs. “The year before my parents passed. I was…five, I guess.” He paused as the congregation started to settle around them, a bright giggle breaking through the last of the shuffling. 

The sound pulled his eyes to the front of the church, where the Choir was lined up in three uneven rows, youngest children at the front. The giggle repeated, and Clint identified its source as Jessica, bouncing on her heels at the edge of the first row of children, hand in the air, waving frantically. There was an answering, slightly muffled, laugh from the congregation and Clint followed that sound as well, finding Jessica’s parents, who were trying not to laugh, but were clearly besotted by the sight of their daughter’s excitement.

The giggling stopped as the piano began the opening strains of _Silent Night_ , and suddenly the church was alive with the voices of children. Clear, strong – and at times not quite in tune – the sound echoed through the room, bringing smiles to the faces of the congregation. Clint let his eyes fall closed, feeling the pleasant ache of memory building in his chest as they continued. 

Turning away, Clint ducked his head slightly, voice barely a whisper when he spoke. “I did it for Mom,” he said, chest tight. He felt Natasha slide closer, her hand fitting into his, tangling their fingers together. “I did it to see her smile.”


	5. Chapter 5

**St Patrick’s Cathedral, New York City – December 24, 2012**

“Stop fidgeting,” Natasha hissed, nudging his leg. Clint stilled, reaching for Natasha’s hand and folding their fingers together. At the front of the Cathedral, the Cardinal was still in the midst of prayers; his words meant as a balm for a city ravaged six months previous. And, Clint supposed, for most of the attendees, they were exactly that. But for him, they burned.

He was still for about a minute before the desire to twitch took over again, tension radiating through his shoulders. “I don’t understand why we’re here,” he said, voice low. “Neither of us are Catholic; and they aren’t either.” He gestured to the pew several forward and to the right of theirs, where the rest – and more media friendly – of the Avengers sat, boxed in by Director Fury on one side, and Pepper Potts on the other. 

“PR,” Natasha replied, squeezing his fingers. “Us being here creates good will.”

“ _Them_ being here creates good will, Nat,” Clint said, rolling his eyes. He glanced around the cathedral, taking in the other dignitaries, before letting his eyes fall back on his team – Stark was fidgeting as much as he was; only Steve looked suitably awed. “SHIELD keeps us out of the media. They don’t know who we are.”

Natasha shrugged. “That’s as it should be.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as the choir started to sing. The music hit him like a wave, not because it was familiar, but simply due to the power of it; the echo among the columns, and the vibration – real and imagined – around him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the voices, and felt himself start to settle. Not all the way, but just enough.

Too bad the music couldn’t last.

As the strains of the choir faded, and the Cardinal took up again, Clint sighed. They seemed to have moved on from basic prayer now, and on to the sermon. Or, wait, maybe it was a homily? What was the difference, anyway? Clint opened his eyes, looking toward his teammates again for distraction. Tony had stopped twitching, but there was an uncomfortable set to his shoulders that mirrored Clint’s own. 

Clint was really starting to worry about how much he had in common with the billionaire.

He felt Natasha shift a little closer, then her voice was in his ear. “You didn’t have to come,” she murmured, squeezing his hand. “I would have covered for you.”

Shaking his head, he turned his gaze to her. “Fury ordered me,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “Pulled into his office, one-eyed glare ordered.“ Natasha blinked at that, and Clint shrugged. “Maybe he thought it would help my morale.”

Natasha looked unconvinced, but then, so was Clint. He wasn’t going to deny he needed the boost, but the Cardinal of New York praying for the souls of the deaths he’d caused, and extolling the virtues of those who had risked (and lost) their lives, wasn’t likely to help him get over the guilt and pain.

Honestly, it felt more like torture. And, now that he was thinking about it, he wouldn’t put torture past Fury either; especially since the helicarrier attack had caused Coulson’s death as well.

_Coulson._

Natasha must have felt him twitch, because she squeezed his hand, drawing his mind back to her and away from the replay of Coulson’s death that ran a feedback loop in his brain. They wouldn’t allow him to watch the footage, but he’d heard enough from those who had. “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, words catching in his throat. “I caused –“

“You _saved_ as many,” she said, fiercely. It was an argument they’d had a thousand times in the last six months; one that usually ended with them curled together in Clint’s bed until he could sleep again. He hadn’t intended to start it again tonight.

“I just –“ 

She shifted in the pew, just enough to bring her free hand up to his cheek. “I know,” she whispered. The smile she gave him was one she usually avoided in public – gentle, understanding. “I do.” Her hand dropped away, but she shifted closer again, letting their legs touch. “Just breathe, okay?”

Swallowing deeply, Clint nodded, turning back toward the front of the Cathedral. As he did so, the choir picked up again, this time with a piece Clint recognised as _Oh Holy Night._ He smiled softly (it was one of Natasha’s favourites), letting his eyes fall closed, his thumb tracing lines on the back of her hand. 

He left his eyes closed as the music trailed off and the Cardinal began, concentrating on the voice, rather than the words being spoken. It worked for a time, then Natasha leaned close. “You’re going to need to participate in this next part,” she murmured. His eyes opened and met hers. “The sign of peace – just …shake the hands of the people around us. Try not to look pained.”

“I’ll do my best,” he replied, rolling his eyes. The Cardinal announced it then, and the two of them rose as one to join those already standing . Natasha reached forward, but Clint turned, expression friendly, and froze when he caught sight of in the pew behind them. 

“Nat –“ She didn’t hear him, and the man behind him didn’t move, although his lips quirked into a tiny smile. He looked thinner than the last time Clint had seen him, and his skin had the unhealthy look of a long recovery, not yet fully complete. But it was him. It had to be him. “ _Tasha_!”

His voice was a little too loud, and more than just Natasha turned, but it was her gasp that finally broke him; that had tears welling up in his eyes. “You see him too,” Clint whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m not –It’s him, isn’t it.”

The man reached out then, wrapping both of his hands around Clint’s one, and Clint couldn’t help the pained noise that escaped his throat. The hands were warm, familiar, and 100% Phil Coulson.

“How –“ Clint stopped, people were beginning to sit again, and his earlier exclamation had already attracted too much attention. Not willing to let go of Phil’s hands, he tugged him gently forward and around, settling him into the pew between himself and Natasha. 

None of them spoke, but as soon as they were reseated, Phil reached out for Natasha’s hand as well. She looked as unhinged as Clint felt, her eyes shiny and her hand shaking a bit as Phil took it in his. “I promise I’ll explain everything,” Phil said, softly. His voice was hoarse, quiet it a way it hadn’t been six months ago, and Clint’s chest ached. “But right now… “ 

Clint reached for Natasha’s hand, completing their slightly awkward circle. He couldn’t stop the tears that escaped as they both squeezed his hands, but he nodded, acknowledging Coulson’s request.

“Welcome home, boss.”


End file.
